


there's gotta be some butterflies somewhere (wanna share?)

by Secretive



Category: DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Fluff, Hal is Dumb, M/M, Unrequited Love, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretive/pseuds/Secretive
Summary: They smile, a little shyly, and they meet each other again, for the first time ever.





	there's gotta be some butterflies somewhere (wanna share?)

Hal meets him in one of the harshest, longest winters the League has ever seen.

 

The Watchtower is tepid in such a way that is disorientating, and a mild buzz swallows the bright-clad heroes as they welcome their newest member -- the brightest of them all (Hal didn’t think it was _possible_ , with Aquaman and his brazen orange chain mail). They call him the Flash. His origin story is pretty laughable; struck by lightning, or something along those comical lines, and Hal doesn’t actually get to meet him until the party dies down, and the red-clad fellow stops getting swamped by over-excited Leaguers.

 

He’s shorter than Hal expects.

 

Looks like a giddy chess piece next to Superman, who pats him jovially on the shoulder before vacating to places unknown with Batman. Hal approaches him curiously as the Watchtower empties, half-eaten pies and multi-coloured confetti painting fireworks on the floor.

 

“So, you’re _the Flash_ , huh?”

 

He snaps around in such a way that is surprised, but when he speaks, his eyes soften and his voice sounds pleased, “I guess so. You’re Green Lantern.”

 

“The one and the only.” Hal pauses, “ _Wait_ , you’ve heard of me?”

 

He laughs, and sticks out a gloved hand, “Not until five minutes ago.”

 

“Hell,” Hal shakes it, vaguely, curiously, disappointed, “at least you didn't call me Superman.”

 

“Actually, I probably _would’ve_ if I didn't meet him a minute ago.”

 

“Oh, _c’mon_. I’m green, I have a giant _lantern_ on my chest.”

 

The Flash smiles, “I’m joking.”

 

Hal makes several observations about Flash in their first face-to-face, but the initial is the most memorable -- Hal doesn't  _understand_ him. He thinks the nice-guy act is a farce; something that peels like dried paint. But when he raises sea-blue eyes, and gives a tentative curl of the lip, Hal knows, he has nothing to hide.

 

That winter is the harshest, longest winter the League has ever seen, but Hal feels the butterflies in his stomach nevertheless, testing their wings for the long, balmy summertime ahead.

 

“He’s way out of your league, lover boy.” Ollie tells him as the Flash wanders off, a little lost, a little awed, a little whelmed.

 

“Uhuh,” Hal says; the butterflies wither and fall dormant, but they are there, “and Dinah’s way out of yours. So what?”

 

Hal watches Flash disappear into a zeta-beam. Ollie shrugs, and tugs at his beard, opening his mouth, then closing it. The Watchtower is empty, now, and Hal looks out the pane of glass, wide and far-reaching. Earth looks so small from here. So peaceful, and faraway. And when Ollie speaks, he sounds content.

 

“The heart wants what it wants, Jordan. That’s just how it is.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Your name’s Harold.”

 

“I mean -- I _guess_.”

 

“ _Harold_.”

 

“Hal, but -- _actually_ , you know what, why are you even here?”

 

It’s a bustling springtime morn at Ferris Aircraft. Dew leaves a thinning blanket over verdant and gilt -- every breath burns your lungs in a way, that isn’t entirely unpleasant. The Flash is leaning against a sheened Lockheed F-117, head cocked, residues of the Speed Force dissipating into burnt gold. He’s been his on-off League partner for months now, and -- and he’s also drinking from Hal’s mug and eating his potato chips. Wait, where the hell did he get that?

 

“Your comms off. We’ve got a meeting. Batman told me I’d find you here.”

 

“Batman -- Batman knows where I work?”

 

The Flash at least has the decency to swallow before he speaks, “I guess. By the way, your desk is a mess. And you have to hide your food better. And -- and I still can’t believe your name’s Harold.”

 

“Hal. It’s _Hal_. And that’s a complete intrusion of privacy. I can’t believe you broke into my office.”

 

“I didn’t break in, you dolt. The door was wide open.”

 

“Oh,” Hal scratches sheepishly at the back of his neck, “same thing. Let’s just go before they put two and two together. I kind of have a secret identity.”

 

“You’re wearing your ring. I can literally see your ring.”

 

“They think it’s cosplay.” Flash gives him that _look_ , “No, I’m serious.”

 

“Sure. Let's go, smart guy.”

 

And so -- like two, sniggering mid-schoolers, wagging school on a frosty Monday morn, the quick and the green make their escape. Flash could probably reach the nearest zeta-tube in nanoseconds, but he paces himself. They run in parallel. Hal used to think it was out of pity, or sheepish respect, but Flash told him one bone-chilling night that there’s nothing more lonely, than a stagnant world that passes in the blink of an eye.

 

Hal can’t relate. But he believes him.

 

“Hal Jordan.” Hal blinks. The Flash is smiling, a reserved quirk of the lip, and the alias is almost foreign under the utter of Flash’s soft, simple voice. Foreign, but not at all unpleasant. His heart aches. He kind of likes it.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Nothing. Just wanted to say it. Hal Jordan.” they skid to a stop, confined by the tattooed bricks of an alleyway, and Hal feels strangely embarrassed, “Test pilot. It suits you.”

 

Hal is flustered. He doesn’t know why (he knows exactly why), but he reacts like an idiot, “And you look like a scientist. A Ryder. A scientist called Ryder.”

 

“God, that’s so generic,” he laughs, “at least you got half of it.”

 

“I _did_? Your name is freaking Ryder?”

 

“I meant the scientist half. But sure.”

 

“Huh.” Hal splints himself against the wall, “Ever heard of an eye for an eye, Flash?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“Consider this: secret identity for a secret identity.”

 

Flash stares at him blankly. He’s searching for a secret contraption of some sorts, but stops groping the wall like a dumbass, and frowns. His ocean eyes fall with the tide. He opens his mouth.

 

“Look, I -- didn't mean to _stumble upon_ your alter ego. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. But we wear masks for a reason, Lantern.”

 

“Hal’s fine,” he shrugs, “and secret identities are overrated.”

 

Flash makes a face.

 

“ _Overrated_ ?” Flash sounds _irked_ now, and it's something Hal so seldom sees, it scares him; his face scrunches, and he wears it like brown on blue (he wears it _badly_ ), “Tell that to all the mothers, and the fathers. We don't wear the mask for _us._  We do it for them.”

 

Flash has always been unpredictable. But he’s heard this before. He hears this every day, so Hal smiles, a little wistfully.

 

“My parents are dead, Red.”

 

Flash can think faster than anyone on Earth. He can perceive events within the attosecond. Can stop the bullet before it ever leaves the barrel. Always, always, knows exactly what to say, whether in snark, or in ease. But he closes his mouth.

 

And for the first time since he's met him, the fastest man alive is speechless.

 

Flash doesn't give him pity. Good. Hal has never needed it. But he does hesitate. He hesitates, and Hal doesn't know _why_ , never really _does_ with the Flash, and he reaches behind his head. A breath is drawn, a breath is withheld. And then he pulls down the bloody red cowl.

 

“An eye for an eye.” Flash agrees, a little shyly, and gives a small smile Hal has yet to catalogue, “Barry Allen.”

 

A little dazed, a little stunned, and a little in love, Hal grins.

 

“Barry, huh?” the butterflies are stretching their pliable wings again, and Hal feels, in the best way possible, sick in his stomach, “What’s that short for?”

 

Flash -- _Barry_ laughs. It's gone, now, that almost-irked, almost-angry furrow of the brow, and sunlight catches like teardrops on the bridge of his nose. He’s beautiful.

 

“Maybe I’ll tell you some day.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The walls between their alter egos and their caped crusade has always been made of plasticine. Hal tears them down on the last, sweltering day of spring, and invites Barry to a business party at Ferris Air.

 

The unmasking paves a new path for the brave and the bold -- Hal is pleased ( _relieved_ ) to discover their duo remains dynamic albeit off-job. It’s unusual -- the two are polar opposites. Hal, forever the social butterfly, finds comfort in Barry’s soft, introverted demeanour. Hal is quick-lipped, Barry is careful with words. Hal likes dogs. Barry likes cats. Like a moth to the flame, opposites attract.

 

And so Hal trips over his feet for the mask, and falls head over heels for the man under it. It becomes difficult to hide -- the slight, lukewarm flush of the skin, or the little, coy rise of the heart rate. In time, Hal finds it easier, more effective to not hide it at all. Barry is smart, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about love.

 

“ - ordan. Jordan. You’re not listening, are you?”

 

“Nah.” Hal says, and Carol Ferris slaps him on the shoulder.

 

She’s in a slim, black slipdress, ears blinking silver and gold as her earrings catch the limelight. She looks good. She _always_ looks good. She’s also dressed for the occasion; Hal almost feels misplaced in the loose-threaded, too-tight suit he borrowed off Barry.

 

“So, who’s _he_?”

 

“Who?”

 

“ _You know_ . The friend that is clearly too good for you. And who you’re drooling over, by the way. Wipe it off, Jordan. You’ll embarrass our competitors -- _and_ , you’re not listening.”

 

Barry is in a baby blue suit that matches his eyes; his tie is crooked a wee bit to the left, and his faded, polished shoes tap at marble six tables away. There’s a beautiful, thinly dressed nobody draping reedy arms around his neck, her lips moving to the quiet, withdrawn beat of the jazz. Hal would be concerned -- except Barry looks not only uninterested, but equally uncomfortable.

 

“Just _go_ ,” Carol throws both hands in the air, “we’ll continue this later.”

 

Hal’s feet move before his lips, and he grins, “Thanks, Carol.”

 

“Don’t get used to it, lover boy.”

 

But Hal is already weaving through lifted limbs, soft, thrumming music, and lazily strewn chairs, eluding the beer-bellied businessmen and their dreary, wide-eyed misses. Barry sees him coming from a mile away. He lifts his neck, cocks his head, and gives him a brilliant, brimming smile. The woman tangled around his neck slinks away at his proximity, spiteful.

 

“My hero.” Barry murmurs as Hal slides besides him, heart-breaking blues alive under quiet, rippling chatter.

 

“Any time. You look like you’re having fun.”

 

He blinks, “I am?”

 

“No. You were on your phone. I saw.”

 

Barry laughs. He sounds sincere, “Sorry.”

 

“Forget it. Just glad you could make it,” and Hal shrugs, as genuine as he is nonchalant, “I know you’re not a party guy.”

 

“No.” Barry says, and he smiles. Hal tries not to stare too much, too long. The lights dim, fortunately.

 

The night is about to begin.

 

Like a withheld breath, the glow washes blue across the metropolis of tables and chairs, across Barry and his slanted gaze. Idle conversations begin to dwindle as the quiet, solemn chimes of a piano take the room by tide. Chairs slide. Tables empty. Wayward feet find their way to the dancefloor, squeamish fingers find their way into another's. People talk, people laugh; people are temporary but when they take to the dancefloor, one step at a time, two bodies become one, and Hal thinks, wouldn’t that be nice?

 

Barry is watching. Always watching.

 

“You dance?” he asks, suddenly, and Hal blinks.

 

“Um,” Hal frowns, and his heart rate rises a smidge, indulging in a sly white lie, “yeah?”

 

“Do you wanna like... _y’know_ ,” Hal swears the speedster is _flushing_ , either that or the lighting is lacking, or he’s seeing, only what he wants to see, “dance?”

 

Hal is glad Supes isn’t here to hear the deafening drum of his heart against his chest, nor Martian, to scour the racing, flustered mess of his mind. Because -- _hell yeah_ , he’d like that.

 

He doesn’t say that, though. God, he doesn’t say that.

 

“I think that would be nice.” Hal says, instead.

 

And Barry smiles, wide and genuine and unexpected, “Me too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They garner the occasional, half-lidded stare. But otherwise, they fall into the sweet nothing of a moment seldom come by. Barry’s hand is warm, and fits just right, and Hal doesn’t think he’s stopping grinning since they left their table.

 

It’s awkward at first. Hal looks at his feet and Barry looks _anywhere_ but Hal, and their cluttered, uncoordinated steps are out-of-place, out-of-time and he’s just starting to think that maybe, _maybe_ this endeavour was questionable in the least.

 

But then the dance floor begins to clutter, pairs crowd the teeming, glowing arena. Somebody elbows Hal in the rib. A nobody knees Barry in the thigh -- and so, a little shyly, a little hesitantly, they shuffle close, and press gently against the other.

 

 _Finally_ , Barry says something.

 

“I thought you said -- _ow_ \-- you danced.” he gives a wry smile.

 

“I do.” Hal says, a little defensively, and steps on his foot for the seventh time that night.

 

“Which explains why you’re breaking every second toe.”

 

“Don’t be dramatic.”

 

“Have it your way, genius.” Barry chuckles, but his voice is quiet, and his waist is warm under Hal’s palm, so for that frozen, idle moment, they fall to that familiar silence, and they revel in the soft, hypnotic ease of the music.

 

Hal has always been a fast learner, and he gets the hang of it after two, slow-moving scores. Barry takes a step backwards. Hal takes a step forwards. It’s improvisational, at best -- like jazz. But somehow, by some means, every displaced step feels planned, rehearsed and perfected, and even when Barry steps too far, and when Hal crushes a toe, every mistake comes naturally, feels _right_. Like jazz.

 

Hal thinks he sees Carol out of the corner of his eye, slender legs moving to an elaborate waltz, fingers in the hands of a nameless, handsome lad. He doesn’t care. Barry’s eyes are lolling, his steps lazy, and like wind chimes, the final score begins.

 

A slow, heart-breaking score, of pianos and violins.

 

When Barry speaks, his voice is hushed, as if he’s scared someone will overhear.

 

“Hal,” a whisper, not quite drowned by the backdrop of strings, so _quiet_ , “why did you invite me?”

 

Hal hums. He knows Barry knows. And Barry knows (he _has_ to) that Hal knows, too. He’s in love. Only fools fall in love -- beautiful, broken fools. Barry is kind. Barry is far too kind, and god help him, Hal thought that maybe, maybe if they spent just that little more time together, if Barry, Flash, _whatever_ , would notice that slight, lukewarm flush of his skin, or that little, coy rise of his heart rate, then maybe, _maybe_ , he would be so kind, as to fall in love with him.

 

Barry is kind, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about love, so Hal laughs.

 

He kisses Barry on the nose.

 

“Maybe I’ll tell you some day.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Days fly by. Months dawdle, and a year rolls by. Hal never forgets that starless, transient night, but he’s afraid he will. It ends where it all started.

 

It’s one of the most humid, stifling summers the League has ever seen.

 

Bloody, half-assed banners sprawl themselves across the Watchtower controls, and the air-con is chilling, throws Hal’s hair haphazardly across his nose. Three quarters of the League amble by for the induction of their newest member -- a bright-eyed, hopeful boy by the name of Kid Flash. Costumed heros garner from far and wide, and Hal notices, a little wistfully, that their numbers have flourished since that fateful winters day, where Green Lantern and Flash exchanged a quiet, forgotten introduction.

 

Ironically, _he’s_ not here. Not just yet.

 

“Talk about a show-up,” Ollie says, leaning against a wintry beam, the golden circle around his ring finger glaring in the half-light, “The Hawks, E-Man, Zee, and -- who is that. I literally have no idea who that one is.”

 

“Animal Man.” Hal sniffs, “I think he controls animals.”

 

“Wow. That’s stupid. That's really stupid.”

 

“ _Hey_ , he’s --” A quiet _thwip_ murmurs as the zeta-tube whirs gently. Hal’s neck snaps, and Ollie is forgotten instantly.

 

A blink of golden red stumbles into the Tower, half-apologetic, half-confused. Ollie raises a brow.

 

“Fashionably late,” he muses, and raises his glass of champagne, golden grey liquid sloshing against its rounded edges,“so...here’s to Hal Jordan finally getting laid?”

 

Hal wants to punch him in the face, “That’s not -- _we’re not_ \--”

 

Ollie shrugs, and reels a defensive hand. The ring hugging his sun-kissed finger is glowing under faded lights. His other half finds herself halfway across the room, and Dinah gives a small, withdrawn wave at the catch of his gaze.

 

They’d wed last summer. Hal had drunk himself stupid. The memory is hazy in the most pleasant of ways, and he can't quite remember, the precession, nor his speech. But he remembers their wide, flush smiles and that look of foolish, utter vulnerability.

 

“The heart wants what it wants, Jordan,” Ollie says suddenly, and he’s looking away now, grinning at Dinah’s sultry, beckoning finger, “there ain’t no shame in that.”

 

So Ollie pats him softly on the shoulder, and disperses into a bustling crowd, his eyes firmly, resolutely, drawn to a loftier tomorrow. Barry appears before him in a flurry of crimson and gold.

 

“Hi, Hal.” he says, and offers a nervous cock of the chin.

 

“Hi, Barry.”

 

“Have you seen Kid Flash?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah I have.” Hal smiles, a little sadly, and thinks of their two shadows, dancing in the night, “He reminds me of you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hal likes him. He really does.

 

Kid Flash is impish where Barry is kind, tongue sharp where Barry's is silver. Two sides of the same coin; Hal thinks the kid strives where Barry lacks, and the quiet promise of apt protection is enough. He’s young, too, though that’s never stopped _Bruce_ , who’d introduced a youthful, beaming Robin to the League’s core days ago.

 

Hal thinks they’d get on well.

 

He watches, spine against the wall, as Barry slices a sizeable slice of cake for Kid. They’re talking about something, cheeks splinted by a grin, lips moving to silent words. It’s peaceful, and Hal is almost content, simply observing. But things never stay peaceful for long -- wayward Leaguers flock, garner like moths around Flash and his protege, asking questions; too many of them. Where Kid Flash glows under the attention, Barry strays. And that was what was so goddamn irresistible about Barry.

 

He always, _always_ chose Hal, over anything else. He’s by his side in seconds, and leans a warm shoulder against his.

 

“Hi.” and he always knows exactly what to say, “Are you ok?”

 

“I’m --” Hal shrugs, eyes rolling to the discordant lines of the ceiling, not quite able to define that warm, fluttering stone in the pits of his stomach, “I’m fine. Just feelin’ --”

 

“Nostalgic?” Barry places his finger instantly, on that word Hal couldn't grasp for the life of him, and he smiles, a little, uneven smile, “Me, too.”

 

“Two years. Feels like I’ve known you for six.” Hal doesn’t lower his eyes, keeps them anchored to a faraway ceiling. Hal knows, if they pierced a small, gaping hole overhead, they’d see the stars. Blinking in the uncountable millions, trillions. They’d remind him of the way Ollie’s wedding ring glows, and they’d remind him of all the time they’d lost, to wars, and intergalactic endeavours, and talking gorillas. Everything moves so quickly. Hal just wishes, they’d have more time.

 

“Y’know,” Hal says suddenly, and he tears his eyes away, now, to grin at the Flash, “you never told me. What Barry was short for.”

 

Barry groans.

 

“That was years ago. I can’t believe you still remember.”

 

Hal remembers everything. He remembers that one time, Barry changed into his uniform the wrong way round, he remembers that one time, he was late for Hal’s birthday, but made up for it, with a trip to the Himalayas. He remembers that distant ballroom, washed by a blue glow.

 

“I remember everything.” Hal says, “So?”

 

“Bartholomew.” Barry says, and he’s looking away. Hal thinks he’s irked, but he catches that tell-tale pink of his cheekbones, and grins, “Bartholomew Henry Alle -- _hey,_ stop laughing! I’m serious, ohmygod --” and Barry gives him that not-quite scathing slap of the shoulder, that he only gives, when his ears are the same shade as his uniform, “I can’t believe you. You didn’t tell me either, by the way.”

 

“Tell you what?” Hal says, swallowing a laugh.

 

“Why you asked me so _nicely_ to go to that business party at Ferris Air.”

 

“You _remember_ that?”

 

Barry smiles, “Of course. I remember everything. So?”

 

Hal shrugs. He doesn’t answer, and turns, now, to watch Kid Flash, keen and vibrant, and Barry follows his gaze. Barry’s protege. Hal still can’t believe it. Just yesterday, they were amateur heros, skidding across beaten roads, revelling at every quiet thank you. Just yesterday, they’d rendezvoused upon a sheened, recent Watchtower, exchanging names, smiles, and butterflies.

 

And just yesterday, Dinah and Ollie were two opposites, sneering at every drawn bow, every clenched fist. Now, Ollie has golden fingers wrapped across her waist, and Hal doesn’t think, he’s ever seen them smile so wide. It bornes a newfound confidence, that struggles to settle. Words swallowed day by day, rise in his throat like the butterflies and their bright, hopeful wings.

 

Everything moves so quickly. Hal doesn’t know where they’d be in ten years time. Hell, he doesn’t know where they’d be in a year, doesn’t know where they’d go tomorrow, doesn’t know where their feet would take them today. Hal just wishes, they’d had more time, and he realises this, suddenly.

 

He also realises, that it doesn’t matter where the hell they were in ten years, or a year, or tomorrow, or today -- as long as there was still a _they_ , he really, really, didn’t give a damn. So he says the truth. That’s all Barry ever gave him. The truth.

 

“Because I like you.” Hal says and he doesn’t look at Barry, he doesn’t look up, because he’d break under that sad, sorry stare of inevitable rejection, “I like you a whole damn lot. But you already knew that.”

 

Chatter, idle conversations; they drown, and the two fall into their own world, of white noise, and the steady, _satisfied_ thrum of Hal’s chest. There isn’t a reply. Not for a long, long time. Then there is. And Barry doesn’t sound sad. But he does sound sorry.

 

“I did. Everyone did.” he says, voice soft, and then Hal hears it - something unexpected, and heart-breaking, and fair. He hears that little raise of pitch, that acute, change of tone, that only happens, when Barry _smiles_ , “You’re also a damn idiot, you know?”

 

His heart skips a beat. Hal _finally_ looks up, and that fear of golden, mustard rejection, curls and withers in the pleasant, summertime heat. Barry is smiling. One of those wide, vulnerable smiles, he’d seen just once, last summer.

 

Words find his dry throat, “I -- what?”

 

“I made fun of you when we first met. I never make fun of anyone. I ate your food. I told you my name. I never tell anyone my name. I ran you to the Himalayas on your birthday. I stayed with you, that one time you lost your ring, and found it three hours later in your pocket. I agreed to go to that party at Ferris Air. I danced with you, for hours on end. I hate parties, Hal.” Barry says, and his lashes, kiss his cheeks, but he’s smiling “I waited. Until you were ready.”

 

He didn’t do it, Hal thinks. He didn’t reject him. God, he didn’t reject him. He just confessed. In that way only Barry could, and everything falls so rightfully, into place.

 

“You -- you didn’t reject me.” Hal jabs a finger at his chest, nigh accusingly, and it’s his turn to feel that searing heat, burning his ears, “You didn’t _reject me._ ”

 

“No. I didn’t, genius.” Barry is -- Barry is close, since when was he this close? -- and his hand is on his shoulder, now, and his teeth are flashing bright, bright white in the light, and there are people, but he doesn’t care, they’re in the shadows, he doesn’t care one bit, and -- “I think you’re supposed to kiss me, Hal.”

 

“Wait I -- I can?”

 

Hal can smell his cologne, now. He can feel his breath on his nose. And he’s so close, he can’t look anywhere but those glowing, blue eyes, he’s so close --

 

“You won’t need permission after today, fly boy.” Barry grins, and an arm is thrown around his neck and Hal is _alive,_  his heart thrumming, his hands clammy, so he slips them around Barry’s waist, and -- he kisses him.

 

Hal’s waited a long time. And they’ve lost some of it to wars, and intergalactic endeavours, and talking gorillas, but Barry always, _always_ made up, for lost time. He tastes like cake. Chestnut cake, topped with bloody red cherries, and his lips are soft, and warm, in a way Hal’s never really known before. Suddenly, Barry’s arching to the curve of his hand, making a soft, eager sound, and Hal leans into him, lips bruised, and throbbing, and he could genuinely, earnestly, die happy. He could die right now, and --

 

 _Click_.

 

There’s a weight on his shoulder. Barry’s hitting it gently. Reluctantly, unwillingly, they pull away, and Barry wipes, hastily, at swollen lips. His cheeks are flushed. Their heads snap to their right.

 

Kid Flash is poised, polaroid in hand, lips slightly ajar. He brings the lense to his chest, and gives an innocent quirk of the lip. Hal doesn’t think Barry could get any more red. But he does.

 

“ _Wally_!”

 

Wally laughs. He swipes the film from its dispenser. He looks down at it, and Hal can see, the colours, dousing beautiful, unforgettable hues against black. Barry is trying -- not  _really_ trying, Hal can tell - to snag the photograph, but Wally is regarding it, with bright, green eyes. He’s smiling, and Hal doesn’t think he knew, how to smile like that when he was his age.  

 

“Souvenir!” Wally declares, raising the photo to the skies, and Hal looks at Barry, and Barry looks at Hal.

 

They smile, a little shyly, and they meet each other again, for the first time ever.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a drabble but i decided to make it a stand alone Sobs  
> super canon divergent ! ! !!111!!  
> written to [Would You Be So Kind - dodie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRW1JcSRPgU)  
> please listen to dodie i love her


End file.
